If Sins were Sunsets, I'd Spend all my Nights with You
by SallySorrell
Summary: A collection of oneshots and drabbles, to cover all characters, topics, and writing styles. Chapter six: join John and Sherlock on what certainly isn't a date, whn they go to dinner after 'A Study in Pink'... Reviews equal adorable Sherlock gifs in your inbox. Thanks!
1. What Does That Make Me, Then?

"I'm not **y**our housekeeper," quipped Mrs Hudson, folding blankets and r**e**setting the couch.

John nodded his thank**s**, assuming he would sleep there another night.

* * *

"I'm not **y**our handler," sighed Lestrade, glancing at his passengers.

J**o**hn and Sherlock looked o**u**t opposite windows of the police-car, and did not speak.

* * *

"I'm not your enemy," grumbled Mycroft, "Don't be childish."

They s**a**t in the _government_'s office, playing a vicious game of chess and discussing John's feelings.

* * *

"I'm not important." Molly **r**eminded herself. She s**e**t down Sherlock's coffee, sugar glittering on top.

"Thank you, John."

* * *

John didn't appreciate Sherlock's latest experiment in laziness; while John was away at work, Sherlock would steal _his _dressing-gown, sprawl across _his _bed, hoard _his _pillows, and protest moving. Sherlock smiled, but did not open his eyes, as John rolled up his sleeves and slipped off his watch. Sherlock waved at his face, until John brushed his curls evenly to both sides.

_"_I'm not your boyfriend," said John, compulsively.


	2. Snow-Globe

**Author's Note: this piece is primarily to characterise Mycroft, and it's an idea that's been clawing away at me for a long time. If you have oneshot or character requests, feel free to send them my way, or check out my other Sherlock works... I've got plenty :)  
Enjoy!**

* * *

Mycroft Holmes, contrary to a widely-held yet silent belief, was not defined by his umbrella. He was not _common _and he was not – as the diet convinced him – _tall _or _thin_. He was not imprisoned by a single clasp, either; his reach was limitless while his energy was not. One evening, sitting in his private room at the Diogenes club and sipping his brandy, he determined he was most like the snow-globe that stared back at him from Anthea's desk.

Mycroft Holmes was certainly _contained_, but not by walls. He could see the_ entire_ world around him, through the safety of the glass. Things magnified as they passed him, bidding for his attention.

Mycroft Holmes certainly _collected dust_. He leaned back in his chair and brushed his fingertips against each other. Most days, he would not move, except from one chair to another. He would gaze out the window, trying to entertain himself by examining anyone lucky enough to pass by.

Mycroft Holmes was certainly _valuable_. All of the pieces of his empire were delicately handmade, and vital to even trivial operations. His gears and mechanisms were clean and well-hidden. Everything was precise, and his brand of focus demanded attention, respect, and – of course – money.

Mycroft Holmes was certainly _breakable_. Luckily, the desk was carefully used; leaned on, mostly. He had never fallen, but _knew _a mess would result if he did. It would take many people to clean it up properly. Even this thought made Mycroft impatient; his lips twitched. He slumped back in his chair, crossed his legs, and held his head in both hands. He recalled one particularly bitter Christmas day:

_Sherlock sat across from him on the floor, staring at the premature wrinkles on his face and lines in his eyes. Mycroft shrugged but did not apologise. _

_They were seated before a dead fireplace, as Mycroft could not afford to keep it lit, listening to their Mum. She was alone in the kitchen, crumpled up in the corner, and sobbing._

_"No, Sherlock," Mycroft said, when the boy's eyes quivered, and he threatened to stand up, "You'll only make it worse."_

What Mycroft Holmes feared, more than anything else, was being picked up irresponsibly, and _shaken_. He would never be a toy, no matter how often wide-eyed children stared at him.

_Mycroft rolled his eyes and opened Sherlock's presents for him. He did everything else for him, anyway. _

_In the second and final box was a snow-globe, magnificently carved and impossibly shiny. Mycroft placed it on the most appreciated item in the house: the bookshelf._

_Sherlock, always his baby brother, stood on a chair to reach the snow-globe. He dismissed trivialities, such as the type of paint and country of origin, and focused on counting the flecks of false snow as they settled. He was too clever to turn it over; he merely raised it above his head to study the label and inscription. Always something sentimental:_

_"To Sherlock, From Father. Happy Christmas."_

_The boy cringed, feverishly scratching off the words. His fingertips nearly bled before Mycroft dared to stop him. Sharply, he grabbed his brother's shoulder, and stabbed the ground with his umbrella._

_"No!" called Sherlock. He ran to the kitchen, to his mother's side, and refused to move until she was quiet. _

Mycroft glared at the globe and slammed down his glass.

There was one person who could pick him up and threaten him, shake him until he was dizzy, and blind him beyond repair:

Always his baby brother.


	3. Wrong Number

**Author's Note: I had a ton of fun slipping codes and symbols into this one. Just like the series, I hope you'll over-analyse, and send in your theories. Thanks for reading!**

* * *

The graveyard was silent, apart from two paltry noises: Sherlock's fingernails clacking against his phone, and every alternate step John took. Sherlock hated to see him limping again, so soon and suddenly.

The mobile phone was new, and Sherlock made many mistakes as he typed. He shrugged and tried to be efficient. He typed in John's number, borrowed from a painting in his room of the Palace, but did not save it as a contact. The phone would only last a few days, Sherlock reminded himself. His heart froze as he tapped 'send.'

John stopped, just outside the cemetery gates, and glared at his pocket. He didn't want to look at his phone. He _r__eally _didn't.

_[1] New Message from: 07510_  
See you at the cinema tonight?  
-Hannah

John rolled his eyes and deleted the message immediately. Sherlock watched as he hobbled to the street corner and begged at the taxis.

* * *

At times, Sherlock trailed his blogger too closely. He watched from the street as John tore his warmth and possessions from 221B. The soldier struggled down the stairs, leaning on a new cane and staring only at the ground. He needed to sit down, there on the staircase, in order to read the text. Sherlock ducked into his coat and turned away from the window.

_[1] New Message from: Unknown_  
Sam,  
Happy Birthday. We miss you.

While reclaiming his normal breath and heartbeat, John decided to reply:

You've got a wrong number.  
I hope you find Sam though.

Sentiment overcame Sherlock; after dismembering the phone beyond recognition, he stuffed it under his borrowed pillow. For the first time in weeks, he slept.

When he awoke, well before the Sun, he moved the message from his memory to a scrap of paper, placed gingerly in his innermost coat-pocket. This was the only comfortable part of the slick, new coat.

* * *

John, of course, had kept the _old_ coat. It rotted in a bag in his closet. He debated whether or not it should move out with him. Of course it _shouldn't_. How would he explain _that _to Mary?

Sherlock, safe and far away, passed time at the train-station by texting. He kept the _Unknown_phone, for poisoned sentiment, and one he purchased from a questionable backstreet vendor. It had been stolen, he deduced. The numbers and contacts were all saved, but the cover was scratched and the aerial (it was an ancient, 'flip' variety) had been chewed by a child or a dog. His fingers were clumsy, stumbling over the nine sticky buttons.

The doctor watched his phone, as it buzzed on the table.

"I can get that, Dear," Mrs Hudson rushed up the stairs. She hated leaving John alone for too long.

"It's fine," he sighed, stepping over partially-packed boxes. The flat was mostly empty, now.

_[1] New Message from: 07624_  
Sorry I left early last night.  
Had to pick up the children.

He deleted this, and returned to his seat. The phone vibrated again:

_[1] New Message from: Unknown_  
Samson,  
Hope you can make it to dinner tonight. Let us know.

In a display Sherlock would be quite proud of, John assumed the other line had an elderly owner. Someone unaware of incorrect numbers, but insistent on polite messages. Someone who only used texting with younger relatives, and for important occasions.

He hoped they would read his response and understand it:

This isn't Sam, sorry.  
You've got a wrong number.

* * *

Sherlock rushed to compose his text before the aeroplane departed. He shifted in the narrow seat, and, after consulting his diary, knew _exactly _where the message would meet John.

The doctor held a sizzling cigarette, but refused to inhale it. Mycroft had sent him a whole packet, as an early Christmas gift. John stood over the headstone, letting the ashes sprinkle onto it. He set down his cane, in order to kneel and refresh Sherlock's flowers; always pink and yellow roses. Six of each.

He refused to look at his mobile until in the backseat of a cab:

_[1] New Message from: 07735_  
Saw your advert online…  
Hoped to make an offer on the Alfa…

* * *

Sherlock was hunched in a chair at a delicatessen; the only place he could find, still open. He sipped stale coffee, overflowing with milk despite his protests to the confused waitress. His Unknown phone was switched 'on' for the first time in a year; he had abandoned the charging cable, and only used it when stricken by sentiment. The screen was dim, as he inputted John's number.

He waved off the waitress, with her stack of menus, and focused on his composition.

John curled up in _his_ armchair and stared at the Christmas tree. Mrs Hudson scrambled to prepare dinner, before her other guests arrived. The warmth of the fireplace, along with a gentle scent of cider, encouraged him to sleep. With fuzzy eyes, he read the text:

_[1] New Message from: Unknown_  
Samson,  
Happy Christmas. See you tomorrow.

He shook his head, somewhat sadly, and tapped a button to dial the Unknown number.

The ringtone sliced through the silent deli, and absolutely mangled Sherlock's heart. He accepted the call, but knew better than to speak.

"Hello?" John's voice; sleepy, strained, and wistful. He heard the springs in the armchair, as John adjusted himself. A blanket rustled, too, against the cane. Aluminium.

Sherlock had to keep focused on the details. He shouldn't speak, and he _couldn't _breathe.

"Uhm," John cleared his throat, "You've got a wrong number, mate. I tried to tell you, but… it doesn't matter, it's fine. Only…. I hope you find Sam, okay? Right. Have a happy Christmas."

Sherlock was relieved to hear the flat tone of a terminated call. He stirred his coffee, paid the cheque, and strolled outside. He knotted his scarf and took shelter in the coat-collar. The Moon flickered between sombre clouds.

He would not use the Unknown phone again. He would not need to.

"Happy Christmas, John," he breathed, "See you tomorrow."


	4. Two Cups of Coffee

Molly Hooper was, without fail or deviation, first to arrive to work. She would slide her card at the front door, flip on every light-switch she passed, and take comfort in the kitchen. Every morning, she would start a pot of tea and a pot of coffee, and set out a tin of biscuits. She always had breakfast at home, but knew some colleagues who did not.

Two cups of coffee. She took one with her to her desk, and left the other in the lobby; two packets of sugar beneath the handle, turned invitingly to the right. This was left for Sherlock, in a way he would appreciate. Although he did not visit every day, she liked being prepared.

_One of these days, _she thought, stirring her own drink, _He'll thank me. Maybe._

Her favourite thing to do, especially in the winter, was to sit cross-legged in her desk-chair, sip her steamy coffee, and watch the sunrise. It crackled through the curtains and drew her attention to the papers in front of her.

She checked her phone, then the basket on her desk. New reports and inquiries were placed there, often overnight. Molly read about a man who died at a polo match, trampled by an opponent's horse. She _hated _herself, for wishing it was a murder. If it was a murder, Sherlock would come round.

* * *

Greg Lestrade, with little variation, awoke before the rest of his household. He would slip from his bed as quietly as possible, careful to replace the blankets as they fell from his wife's shoulder. He would sigh and collect his badge from the nightstand and his clothes from the closet.

The bedroom door needed to be sufficiently shut before he made coffee. Not for himself; just for his wife. Greg liked to have his meals in his office. This served as a legitimate excuse, when it was needed, for ignoring both cases and time at home.

Before stepping out of the house, he would have a sip of water. He would slosh a glass beneath the tap, drink it too quickly, and then set the glass in the centre of the sink. It would still be there when he got home, no matter the time, if he needed it again.

He would sit in his car, fingers twisting nervously over the handbrake, and admire the sunrise. He would not leave for work until the light reached his eyes. Catching the glare with his palm, he would begin his commute.

Donovan stood waiting in his office. Anderson was there too, sitting in his chair. Greg glared until he stumbled to his feet.

"Freak called for you," Sally said, handing him an overstuffed folder, "Wants you to meet him at Bart's."

* * *

Greg picked up the extra cup of coffee, which Sherlock protested upon arrival. They all met in the examination-room, where Sherlock examined a riding crop other than his own. All eyes in the room were focused on unique occupations:

The corpse's eyes were peeled open, so Sherlock could check them for clouds of blood. John stared at Sherlock, while Greg and Molly looked between their coffee and one another. Each decided the other's face was sad and tired, but did not diagnose themselves this way.

"Thanks for the coffee," Lestrade grinned, after yawning. Sherlock and John were talking quietly, leaning over the body.

"Oh," Molly glanced up at him, "It wasn't, um, it was for Sherlock. I always make it for Sherlock, 'cause he— Never mind, I'm sorry. You can… you can have it, of course. You're welcome."

Greg had already finished it. They smiled, and watched as Sherlock left John to determine the cause of death, despite Molly's nearly-inaudible insistence the coroner had done so already.

"Really?" huffed Sherlock, upon seeing his supervisors, "You're making it _impossible _for me to think. Go outside, if you're going to do _that_."

They did not ask _what_. John made this mistake for them, and was forced to endure Sherlock's 'ridiculous' observations, until Molly blushed and dashed to the hallway.

Greg shrugged at Sherlock, while John scolded him about boundaries and privacy.

"I should check on her," said Greg. John encouraged this. Sherlock rolled his eyes and returned to work.

* * *

He found Molly in the kitchen, rubbing her eyes on the sleeve of her lab-coat.

"He's always like that, though," Molly made an effort to apologize both _for _and _to _Sherlock, as always.

Greg poured them each a cup of coffee, into new mugs from the cupboard.

They sat, in welcome silence, until the sunset tapped on the window.

"That's pretty, isn't it?" Greg stood to admire it, "Awful lot like you."

"Yeah," Molly's eyes widened, as she recognized the rest of his words, "No, I didn't mean that, I just..."


	5. The Pain of Five

**Author's note: this piece can be read on its own (a cup of tea) or as a companion to my 'The Pain of Three' (tea and biscuits :3)  
Find them on my AO3 for the legit formatting. Way cooler, I promise. Enjoy, and grab some tissues?**

* * *

_Denial_

_He didn't see me_, Sherlock thought, _He can't see me. He couldn't, and he didn't. He won't._

Sherlock sat in a dark, abandoned corner of the morgue, wiping his hands and preparing to purge the life-saving solutions from his system. Far too many blood-thinners, pain-killers, and sleep-aids. Their mixture was a dangerous miracle. His head throbbed, his heart shivered, and his stomach spun.

_I should be dead. He thinks I'm dead, and he's right. _He leaned over the sink,_ I should be. I am. _He coughed, and the pain was unbearable,_ I must be. _

John was silent, and entirely numb. All possible tears had left him.

Mrs Hudson watched from the doorway as he shook. His hand recollected its nervous tremor, and his legs collapsed beneath him. His sobs were dry and desperate.

"He can't be dead," John wailed. If he chanted it enough, if he cried it and yelled it and wished it and prayed it, it _must _become true. John considered his faith, shaking along with the rest of him, or buried with a body that _didn't _belong to his best friend

"You saw him, John," Mrs Hudson's voice was gentle, but also stained with sadness.

"No," the word was a hook in John's lips, drawing him away from the truth, "No, I didn't."

_Anger_

Sherlock tore the cheap curtains from the hostel's only window. He growled at them, merely for existing, and fell to the frail mattress.

He had missed his first target. His gun, which he was admittedly unaccustomed to, leaned on the windowsill to cool.

His world-tour was not for sightseeing, as Mycroft often reminded him, but for crumpling up Moriarty's web and disposing of it. Spraying it with water, until the centre collapsed, and the other strings fell valiantly around it.

He would not leave his room. He could not try again. Back to the borrowed laptop, to schedule another flight, and find don't-ask-questions accommodation. Cheap, quiet, and dirty. Covered in cobwebs.

John did not leave his room, either. His own bedroom, just above Sherlock's. He kept the door locked, but he only stared at the doorknob, in case someone would break in.

_Who? _He thought, reaching to check it for the thirty-second time, _Why would anyone want anything to do with me?_

Everything upset him, but especially the promise of pity. He checked the door again; still locked.

"No one," he leaned into his tear-ravaged pillow, to muffle the shouting, "I don't want any _god-damned help_."

This would be news for his therapist. With a sick smile, he recalled their upcoming appointment, and promised to tell her this, too.

_Bargaining_

"I _need _to see him!" Sherlock's face was paler than ever, and newly scarred. With stormy eyes, he tried to drown his brother. To shove him into agreement.

Mycroft, though, did not move. Not at all. He stared past his younger brother, and did not blink, even when Sherlock slumped over and spat the words at his face.

"You'll have to settle for me, I'm afraid," said Mycroft, interlacing his fingers, "Took rather a lot of trouble for me to meet you."

"I am not _interested _in _your _trouble," Sherlock's growl was icy, "I need to see John."

Mycroft shook his head and pressed his lips together until they were nearly white. Sherlock recalled this display of disappointed fury from his childhood, and altered his entire presence; he sat in the chair across from Mycroft, and softened his eyes and voice:

"Then _help_ me," he begged. The words were gentle, and separated by terrified pauses.

"I _am._" Mycroft borrowed the brisk tone, "I _always _help you, Sherlock. The _least _you can do is shut _up _and appreciate it."

John apologized to his therapist, several times in quick succession.

"But I don't _need _help," he assured her.

She shook her head and waited for him to speak again.

"Sherlock is," he began, with a great and hopeful breath. He could not complete the sentence. His throat was frozen.

"Yes, John?" she glanced up from the notepad.

"He's not here. Not right now. Not, um, with me."

"The past-tense, John, is helpful."

"He _was _dead, then," muttered John, "Sorry."

"He _is_. You need to say that he _is_."

"No," John stood, "Not today. Tomorrow."

_Depression_

The morning was cold and quiet.

Sherlock stared through the taxi window. He _knew _he was following John too closely. He knew it, but he did not stop himself.

His mind was full of John. Every room of the Palace was cluttered with his image and habits and preferences. And history.

Sherlock's eyes filled with tears, but he did not allow them to fall. The car rambled past the cemetery, where John was shaking against the slanderous headstone, and rubbing flint from his fingertips. The cane waited nearby. John's hand would not cooperate, and he struggled to stand.

John's trek home was miserable. _Everything _was miserable.

When he saw his reflection in passing windows, he would glare at it until they were separate.

He did not feel hungry anymore; he felt nauseous. On the days when hunger overcame him as a necessity, he would eat whatever Mrs Hudson made for him.

One particular bowl of soup, while it comforted his bones and rekindled his stomach, took him eight hours to eat. Whenever Mrs Hudson checked on him, she would offer to microwave the bowl. He liked it better when it was warm, but could not find the strength to walk to the kitchen on his own. The cane offered no assistance; only mocking.

_Acceptance_

"Soon," Mycroft's voice crackled through the phone-speakers. Sherlock offered a smile as he ended the call.

_Soon_, his thoughts recited. It was the answer to every question that paraded around his Palace.

He would see John, soon. Things would be back to normal, soon.

Sherlock _needed _normal. Although he hated routines, he adored familiarity.

John was normal and John was familiar. He needed John.

There was one more name on his list. One more bullet in his briefcase. One more person had to die before he could return, safely and excitedly, to _John._

John learned, whenever he spoke to Sherlock, to use the past-tense.

He stood firmly over the headstone, and studied the flowers instead of the words.

"You were such a good friend, Sherlock," he said, voice soft and crumbly; a warm cookie, "I am so glad that we met, and that we got to know each other. I hope we'll meet again, right? _That _would be heaven, if I could see you."

His thoughts were slow and calm, as prescribed by everyone who knew him.

Sherlock loaded his gun, and stared obediently at his final target.

_Soon._


	6. Missing Home

Since Sherlock lifted the caution tape over their heads, John felt no need to remove his hands from his pockets. For the entire trip, they remained buried in the cotton, rubbing together in an attempt to mask the gunpowder. Although Sherlock insisted on helping him clean it off, they were going to have dinner first. Chinese.

John coughed and looked through the window, then at his menu. The waiter did not accept Sherlock's insistence on only leaving one menu, as he had the useful parts memorized. Thus, John held both in one hand, and tried to look busy. He already knew what he wanted; so did Sherlock.

"A good choice," said the detective, capturing John's attention, "if you like to be boring."

"What are y—?"

"Fried prawns. Don't bother with the toast."

"Right," John nodded and folded his menu defiantly shut, "Should I bother _asking_, then?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock's eyes brightened, with false confusion and too-real arrogance.

"You know very well 'hmm,'" mocked John, as the waiter returned. He passed in his menus and provided his 'boring' order.

Sherlock did not request a meal, and insisted he would eat the toast, which John did not refuse.

John rolled his eyes. When he placed his hands on the table, with the intent of unrolling his silverware from the napkin, Sherlock stared.

"You've made it worse," Sherlock reached for his hands and studied them in the light of the paper lantern, swaying over their heads.

"Could you… not do that?"

Sherlock tossed his hands down but did not apologise. The doctor looked at the remaining powder, saw absolutely no difference, and returned his attention to the silverware. Sherlock, slightly too loudly, deduced that John was unable to use chopsticks. His apology was in the form of refusing a set for himself, even though he liked the challenge.

Apart from this, they were quiet in waiting for their meals. Many important questions – some practical and some concerning the case – drifted through the doctor's mind, but he did not vocalise them.

The waiter smiled and set the plate down between them. John thanked him, and Sherlock gave a lazy nod. Immediately, he reached for the toast and bent it in half.

"Have you ever missed a shot?" Sherlock asked, as soon as the waiter departed. John collected the question after sampling his dinner. He thought as he chewed:

"When did you mean?"

Sherlock tilted his head.

"I used to be rubbish at it," John continued, so his friend would smile, "You get plenty of practice, though, in – y'know – the _army_."

They enjoyed laughing together. John continued eating, while Sherlock sipped his tea and took unhappy bites of the bread.

"Is that all you wanted to ask?" John made sure his eyes were friendly, and his tone was warm.

"Your answer was sufficient."

"Right, good. I mean, we can talk more when we get home, if you want."

"Home?" The word shocked Sherlock. When he spoke of his residence, it was solely _'the _flat', or named based on its location. He always considered 'home' to be a concept, not a structure. Whether or not John shared his definition, they did officially share a _home_.

"Yeah," said John, "If you wanted… I'll be up unpacking, anyway."

Sherlock nodded, to accept this as an obvious truth.

"You've never missed a target," this was the only thing occupying the detective's mind.

"Why?"

Sherlock huffed, tossed down the toast, and rolled up his sleeves.

"I haven't either."

John, being accustomed to more graphic injuries, did not flinch or redirect his eyes. Beyond the trio of nicotine-patches, still applied but peeling at the edges, were neat perforations. Based on their depth and colour, John determined which were used most frequently, although he did not want to guess _what _they were used for. Of course he _knew_, but he did not make himself guess.

"What are you… what do you want me to say, Sherlock?"

"Preferably nothing. Seems likely enough, considering Harry."

John shrugged:

"Then why would you show me?"

"You're a doctor," muttered Sherlock, "better than Mycroft, anyway."

"Mycroft's a doct—?"

"Not of medicine… it doesn't matter. Just _look_."

John glanced between his patient, and the crowd of eyes, focusing around them. He turned his chair, to block as much of the view as possible.

"What am I looking for?" John asked, gently tracing his fingers along the dots. Some were indentations, several hollow scars, and others were raised and blistered. Sherlock muttered about the smudges of gunpowder, and scrubbed them with a damp napkin.

"The target," mused Sherlock, scratching at the patches, "I need to miss it."

John turned his head and raised his brows.

"John," Sherlock began, more seriously than their short association had showcased, "I need to miss. If I yell at you, or scream at you, you need to refuse."

"Sure," said John, "Of course."

"You don't understand," Sherlock's tone darkened, and sweat lined his forehead, "I don't _ever _want you to give them to me, no matter what I tell you… no matter what I do."

The doctor folded his lips and nodded. This was a face and stance he usually reserved for salutes to his superiors.

"Good," said Sherlock, "Thank you."

"It's fine. Don't worry about it," John reached for the fortune cookies, and passed one to Sherlock, "Want a guess?"

Sherlock sighed, and reached for the slip of paper as John unfolded it.

"Thought you guessed them."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and reset his sleeves. He retrieved his fortune, made no attempt at reading it, and set it down for John's approval. He read it quietly:

Change is always good.

"Mine's better, though," John was smug, as they left the restaurant, with Sherlock turning up the collar of his coat.

Sherlock reached for the paper, but John shoved it into the safe confines of his pocket.

"Won't come true if _you _read it."

"It isn't something that can 'come true.'" Sherlock made an attempt at deduction, studying John's face in passing streetlamps, "Famous last words, probably. The only truth in those is the death afterward."

John nodded, and kept his hands in his pockets. Sherlock opened the door for them, back at Baker Street.

"Good to be home," hummed John. Sherlock twisted free of his scarf, and threw his coat to his armchair. He smiled, once the doctor was facing him.

That evening, Sherlock found agreeable sleep. John did the unpacking on his own, with his bedroom door shut. Once content with his arrangements, and enticed by a yawn, he taped his fortune to the mirror and collapsed on his bed.

Sherlock read it the next morning, since he awoke before John. As he judged the tangled blankets and desperate snoring, he assumed this would become customary.

He peered at the mirror, and read the fortune too many times.

The words wrapped themselves up in his brain, and fell from his fingers; Sherlock was always vulnerable to sentiment between cases.

_It has all been done before_, he urged himself, peeling off the patches. He was familiar with the elation of addiction, and the ache of withdrawal. The words warmed him, as he collected his secret stash and dumped it down the drain.

_It has all been done before._


End file.
